


Edinburgh Military...

by MezzaMorta



Series: Metal and Ink [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Mildly piratey, Mycroft IS the British Government, Naughty Sherlock, Sentiment, Sibling Incest, Tattoos, holmescest, loving relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 05:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: Pure dialogue fic.  Sherlock got his piercing. What does he want in return?





	Edinburgh Military...

**Author's Note:**

> Some more verbal sparring between dirty boys. A bit of a longer take.  
> Apologies for the appalling title!

"No, Sherlock."

"'No, Sherlock' what? I haven't said anything."

"Absolutely not, no. Not a rat's chance in Battersea Dog's Home."

"Are you hearing voices, Mycroft? Do I need to call John and have you sedated?" 

"I'm not going to do it, I don't care how much you beg."

"I haven't even bloody said anything!"

"Oh, not with words, brother mine. But when has that ever been necessary? I hear you loud and clear, and my answer is definitively, concretely, resolutely in the negative."

"Right, that's it. Had your chance. I'm going to be making myself very un-naked now. Observe. This is Sherlock Holmes putting his clothes back on..."

"Nice try."

"Oh God,  _what?!_ You're being a complete  _arse,_ Mycroft _._ Have some bread or something. _"_

 _"_ Mm-hm. And there we have it. Another futile attempt."

"Right, I'm leaving. Could have been a nice little fuck, this, but you've ruined it. Do enjoy your misery wank."

"I simply won't get a tattoo, Sherlock."

"What?!"

"I will not."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Give it up."

"[…] Oooh, but WHY?! I got my love muscle pierced for you!"

"Ah HA! You admit it, then?! You  _have_ been trying to subconsciously influence me to get a tattoo on my backside!"

" _How_ have you even noticed? I've been  _so_ SUBTLE!

"Oh, baby boy, have you?"

"You're such a complete, utter..."

"My suspicions were aroused by the following incidents. I submit my evidence thusly. First: You've been scratching me more than usual, trying to get me to associate 'pleasure' with the idea of 'skin', causing a bit of pain to hint at your errant desires."

"Doesn't prove a thing. I always scratch you when we're fucking."

"Yes, but you don't normally draw pictures on me with your nails, and you don't normally focus your attentions on just one area of my sadly less-than-pert form."

"Nothing wrong with it. Gorgeous arse."

"Second: the word 'arse' has appeared far more frequently in your lexicon of late, to my great consternation."

"But - "

"Third: you've been doodling lovely little designs everywhere - on the notepad by the phone, on the kitchen counter with pasta, on the steamed-up bathroom mirror..."

"That could have been anyone with access to your _en suite_. Oh wait, no, it's only me..."

"Fourth: you've been intermittently tapping and drumming on every available surface, and then you asked if we could go to Scotland for the summer, particularly August, and perhaps we could visit Edinburgh."

"So?

"When Edinburgh plays host to the annual Military  _Tattoo._  Desperate and very immature word association."

"Damn. Knew that was a dicey one."

"Most incriminating of all: you've been watching a lot of burly tattooed sailor pornography and visiting tattoo parlour websites, and failing to delete the history on your 'secret' laptop, which you know I know about. I know about the secret-secret one as well, by the way. Utterly transparent. In short, you've been rumbled, brother-mine. Foiled. Thwarted."

"Bastard."

"Indeed. Now take your knickers off and stop being a silly boy."

"Just a little tattoo, Mycie, just a little, tiny one that wouldn't hurt very much?" 

"Not even a microscopic one. They're not my idea of a good time, and, really, Sherlock, they're rather vulgar and common, don't you think?"

"I do not think. I think they're sexy. Get a nice one. Ple-e-ease? A pretty one for me to look at, with a lovely meaning."

"Like what exactly?"

"Something personal."

"You mean, something to do with you. You mean your name."

"Not necessarily. Could be a symbol, something cryptic. Like...a little snake in the shape of an S."

"Not exactly the Enigma code, is it?"

"A very, very small lock, with a key."

"Are we playing Pictionary?"

"Or the chemical symbol Hg in nice calligraphic lettering. You're always calling me 'mercurial', after all..."

"I am not having any manner of sentimental cliché or visual pun inked into the flesh of my rear end, Sherlock, and that is my final word."

"Ugh, you're no fun, and you're mean."

"Mmm, I am sometimes  _quite_ fun and un-mean though, aren't I...? Like when I do...this, for example?"

"Not fair."

"Oh, come on..."

"No! Not playing until you answer my original question - why? You’re not averse to a bit of pain. It'd turn you on, you know it would. It'd turn me on like mad." 

"Reading the phonebook would turn you on like mad."

"We'd find someone discreet, wouldn't have to go to a parlour if you didn't want to."

"Sherlock, I pride myself on the fact that not a single citizen of the realm other than you has ever seen me in the nude."

"Apart from Mummy."

"Don't bring Mummy into this, please."

"They wouldn't bloody want to see you in the nude! They don't make you strip for a little bum tattoo, you'd just bare one cheek or something. There'd be towels, or a sheet. It'd be like going to the doctor but without being patronised."

"Nevertheless."

"I'll do it to you, then!"

"You will not!"

"I could. I'll get a little kit of my own, a gun, some inks. Can't be that hard to figure out. I bet I'd be brilliant at it. John always says I should do a bit of DIY."

"Sherlock, darling boy, one day, if you're very well-behaved, I will donate my body for you to experiment on after I'm dead - but that's the only way you're coming near it with a tattoo gun. Until then, you're out of luck."

"You don't trust me."

"Don’t sulk. I do trust you, I just don't want you sticking needles into my bottom and using it as a sketchpad. If that makes me an unreasonable man, then an unreasonable man am I. Anyway, you're far too preoccupied with that particular portion of my anatomy as it is. Placing a piece of artwork there would only encourage this unhealthy obsession.”

“It’d look sooo good…”

“See? I'd never get you off me, I’d be bending over for you all the time and you'd never let me get you on your back again. I'm not giving up topping you to gratify your perverse desire to gaze at my permanently marked posterior. Mustn’t spoil you, must we?"

"Not talking to you anymore."

"Look... In all seriousness, dearest, I can't risk it. Not the pain or the embarrassment. I mean I can't risk having something which obviously links me to you so intimately.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“There are any number of improbable but not impossible scenarios. If I get captured and exported by a hostile regime, or attacked by a rogue agent, or held hostage. Or just injured in the ordinary run of things and taken to hospital, or - I don't know - I have a heart attack in the office and I'm set upon by the medical team in the special Whitehall unit. Factors would be involved. Hush-hush stuff. If my most illicit secret were written on my body, it would be compromising to me, to you, to the nation. "

"But you're always saying what a bunch of cretins they are in MI6."

"MI5 are the cretins. MI6 are just lazy. But even by their paltry standards, it wouldn't take much for someone to clock it and work out what it meant. People - even our people - are trained to look for things like this, to follow all the tiny threads of a life. They are trained to take advantage of anything they can use to compromise someone like me. And what then? Blackmail? Our relationship common knowledge? Exile? Prison? If I had to choose, really had to choose, between the lives of my countrymen and your single, precious life, I would choose you. It would be obvious to the meanest intelligence. I already take a lot of risks - all of them entirely worth it and mitigated by special measures, of course - but this I cannot do."

"OK."

“It's unnecessary and irresponsible.”

“Yeah. Got it.”

"Dearest..."

"It's OK, Mycie. I know. I just liked the idea."

"I don't necessarily hate the  _idea_."

"Don't talk about that stuff happening anymore. I don't want to talk about that stuff."

"I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Possibilities only. Not probabilities, brother mine. Very unlikely possibilities." 

"Don't care. Not out loud."

"No. All gone now."

"Mycroft."

"My Lock."

"May I come back to bed now, please?

"Yes, darling, of course."

 

*****

One week later.

*****

 

"Hello, Mycroft. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Oh, but something is. You're calling me at lunchtime. You never call if there’s food. Doesn’t Anthea usually bring you a ghastly salad by now? Or has she forgotten? I'M not bringing you a ghastly salad, if that's what you're angling for."

"Be quiet, you little horror. Anthea is one of the country's foremost counterinsurgency operatives, not a bringer of salad, ghastly or otherwise."

"So what do you want?"

"I, erm..."

"You're breathing strangely."

"Am I?"

"Yes, panting. Pulse is raised, blood pressure up. And you're...wincing. I can hear it in your voice. Are you hurt? Where are you?"

"Some of us do go to work, you realise."

" _Where_ at work are you?"

"At my desk, of course."

"Is something bothering you, big brother of mine?"

"It's rather difficult to, erm...get comfortable at the moment..."

"Oh. My. God."

"Don't get too excited."

"Have you done it? Really, though, have you? What have you done?! You've  _done_ something." 

"I have only just come in to the office. I had a -  _ah!_  - a late-running meeting this morning. At the flat. Someone came round. A discreet specialist."

"If you hired a rent boy, Mycroft, I swear to God -"

"Just listen, you idiot.  _Ow, Christ!..."_

"Oh, Mycroft. Oh, big brother mine, you  _haven't?!_ "

"I rather fear I have."

"Oh, Mycie, you sexy, vulgar brute!"

"Shut up! It's not on my...arse. It's on my inner thigh. That way you can get a good look at it when I'm having you face-up."

"Oooh, yummy..."

"Don't you want to know what it is?"

"Yes, yes, yes! Tell me-tell me-tell me."

"It's a... Oh God, this is so much more humiliating than I imagined. It's... A pirate flag. Monochrome, skull, crossbones. About three by two inches in size, but at the moment it feels like it's six foot across. It's currently sore as hell, red round the edges, and covered in clingfilm.  I've had to take my trousers down to stop it rubbing. My leg looks like a marinated chicken drumstick.”

"Pirate flag..."

"Rather _apropos_ , don't you think? A little on the nose for us, perhaps. But rather more esoteric to an interested observer."

"[...]"

"Sherlock? Why aren't you saying anything? Please, please tell me I haven't got this wrong. It's really quite painf-  _Ouch. Bugger!"_

"Yes, please. _Bugger_. Me. Like, now. Come home and fuck me cross-eyed, Myc... Oh, please.”

'"Goodness me. That good, eh?"

"Uh-huh. Let me suck you so I can look at it up close. Wanna touch it when you come in my mouth.”

“Why did I go to the office? Why?”

"Leave. I’m so hard, and wet..."

"Don’t actually think I can walk. Not with a new tattoo _and_ an erection.”

"Don't care. Get a car, get to St. James's. Now."

"Yes. I must go home. I'm ill. In fact, I think I'm certifiably insane. [...] Why are you giggling?" 

"Mycroft! You do realise you've gone and tattooed a Jolly Roger onto yourself! Jolly Roger? A cliché _and_ a pun!"

"Oh, for fu-"

"Come and buckle my swash, you rogue. I'll be the naughty cabin boy who won't swab the deck, and you can discipline me."

"Spare me, I implore you."

"Hurry aboard, I'm setting sail..."

"Sherlock? Oi! Sherlock, don't you dare lay a hand on yourself without me you randy little... Where’s the bloody… Anthea! Order me a car...!"

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback welcome.


End file.
